Rebirth
by Silvermags
Summary: The world descends into shadow. The moon watches, and waits, and rages. They will return.


Chapter 1

The world was dark. It hadn't always been that way, it used to be that happiness was the rule rather than the exception. But that had changed, suddenly. It had been building for a while, too subtle to be noticed, but had come to a head when one morning, every child in the world woke up and announced they didn't believe in Santa anymore. From there, it only got worse. Those children grew up and rather than telling their own children the stories that had once brought joy to their own generation, they chose to warn their children about how the world was dark, and difficult, and they needed to get tough sooner rather than later to survive. Generations passed, and the world stagnated. Innovation and creativity all but vanished, and people didn't even notice, going through the motions of a life like puppets. Shadows lurked around every corner, and apathy was the order of the day. The stories faded into obscurity within just a few decades, and no one remembered them enough to mourn. Above it all, the moon watched. And raged.

Edmund Lapin itched. He'd never been an active man, preferring to stay inside with his history books and forget the world. But now he found himself bursting with energy, urging him to run and run and never stop. He suddenly craved fresh fruits and vegetables, and was abruptly unable to settle for the ordinary supermarket produce anymore, _something_ in him demanding he grow it himself. Some mornings he would wake up and fall flat on his face, because his body felt _wrong_ , in a way he couldn't understand or define. His hands, his legs, his ears, his voice, all wrong. Something was wrong with him, and he didn't know what.

Andrew Manfred dreamed. There was no other way of putting it. He'd be in the middle of going about his business when all of a sudden he'd be pulled into some fantastical vision, only to blink and find hours had gone by. He would stay awake all night, kept from sleep by swirling colors and splendid music that danced through his mind, only to drop off at increasingly unusual times and places during the day. He'd always been quiet, but he found himself becoming even quieter, unwilling to speak more than the barest necessities. He didn't know, just that he couldn't bring himself to speak for fear of… _something_ happening. What it was, he didn't know.

Tara Bright longed. For what, she didn't know. Everything she did tickled a memory frustratingly out of reach. She'd always had an excellent memory, so to be perpetually unable to remember something was driving her absolutely batty. She'd be busily working and turn to talk to someone only to realize she had no idea who she was trying to talk to but knowing they were important. She saw mothers with their daughters on the streets and ached with some pain she couldn't name. She stared up at the sky and felt her back itch, yearning to leap into the air and feel the freedom that came with living in three dimensions. She cried at night for sorrow over something she wished she remembered.

Christopher Nichols burned. Hundreds of strange ideas floated through his mind every moment, designs for toys and games crowding to the forefront of his mind when he was busy with other things, important things. He would try to continue working, but would inevitably five in to the urge and spent hours creating beautiful, useless things. He began to notice things he hadn't before, sunsets and snow and silly, silly little things that were somehow the most incredible things he'd ever seen. He turned to bellow for… someone, he wasn't sure who, only to be hit with an incredible sense of loss. His house became too big, too quiet, too empty, as he missed something he'd never had.

Johnny Rime was always cold. No matter how many space heaters he bought or blankets he threw over himself he felt as if he had decided to visit Antarctica in his shorts and t-shirt. No matter where he went, it always seemed to be windy, even indoors. No matter how many drafts he found and plugged there were always more. He watched clouds pass by out his window and his fingers itched for something that was never there when he reached for it. He somehow managed to lose almost every pair of shoes he owned, and was almost, almost unbothered. Even though he knew he needed those. He saw a few, brave, naive children playing on the street, and instead of shaking his head and going back to work he stopped and watched, and ached with a longing he couldn't describe.

The moon smiled.

And one day, those five strangers woke up with a destination burning in their minds, urgency in every thought. They left everything behind and traveled, busses and planes and hitchhiking across miles and miles of countryside, compelled towards the answer to the question that none of them knew they had. Finally, they met in a clearing in a forest, under the full moon's light. A voice came from the moon then.

It said "I'm sorry".

Then the pain began.

Up in the moon, the man who once had ruled the earth in secret shed a few tears for them, for their terror and agony as their bodies changed, limbs sprouting where there were none before, bones rearranged, hearts stopped and started again, tattoos and feathers and fur reasserted themselves, and centuries worth of memories flooded unprepared minds.

And when it was done and the five no-longer humans lay on the forest floor dazed, he spoke to them again. "My Guardians," he said, "There is great evil abroad in this world. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but are you willing to go out and fight once more for the children that are all we are and all that we will ever be?"

They stood, and for a moment hesitated, human sensibilities warring with their true natures. Then they looked at each other, and at the moon, with recognition in their eyes, and answered with one voice, "We will."


End file.
